Two Horns on the Same Goat
by Bellarsam Chrisjulittle
Summary: John does NOT take the news of Sherlock being alive well, especially the part about Molly knowing and not telling him. When he confronts her in anger and makes a bad situation worse, it is Sherlock who must fix the situation between the two people in his life that count the most. John/Molly (first attempt, so please be kind).


**Two Horns on the Same Goat**

Dr. Molly Hooper was exhausted. Not only was she working the last few minutes of an eighteen-hour shift, but her reunion with Sherlock Holmes after eighteen months of silence had taken quite a bit out of her, too.

He had come to the locker room when she had gone there to change for her dinner with John on her break. After getting over her shock, he had told her that it was over and he was back for good. He had also told her that he needed to go to dinner with John in her place. Though she had not seen him since the day after the fall, Molly Hooper could still read Sherlock Holmes very well, and she saw in his eyes that he was nervous. Whatever his reasons were for making his reunion with John in a public place rather than a private setting, Molly thought it best to let him do this the way he felt he had to.

She had spent the entire night in the morgue worrying herself sick about what may happen. But it wasn't Sherlock that she really worried about – it was John, a man she had grown quite close to in the last eighteen months. She wouldn't be surprised if John threw a couple of punches. Perhaps that was why Sherlock chose a public place to reveal himself to the doctor. Molly could only pray now that Sherlock would find a way to make John understand why it had to happen the way it did, and that John's unavoidable anger would soon blow over.

Unfortunately, Molly was very wrong. For, at dawn, just as she was packing up her purse in the lab, the doors slammed open.

The pathologist jumped a little; it had been a long time since Sherlock had come to the lab, and that was how he always opened the doors in a grand entrance. However, when Molly looked up, it was not the arrogant and sure face of Sherlock Holmes that greeted her. It was that of Dr. John Watson, staring right at her. He hadn't changed from the suit she assumed he wore to the restaurant, but he look disheveled, as if he'd walked the entire length of London. Though his expression was hard as stone, it didn't take Sherlock's deduction skills to see that his temper had reached the boiling point.

Molly immediately felt her hands begin to shake and her heart begin to pound. She realized that she should have been expecting this and absolutely dreaded what was going to happen. What else could she expect after Sherlock revealed himself to John by meeting him for dinner when it should have been her? Of course John would want to know all of the details of how Sherlock had survived, and she had played an integral part in that.

Looking at him, Molly knew it didn't matter at all now that she and John had become close friends in the last eighteen months. Not now that he knew what she had kept from him, even when it was the last thing she wanted to do. His sense of betrayal was so palpable Molly felt it could slap her in the face.

"H-hi, John," was all she could manage to say, her hands shaking even more as she saw the rage on his face.

He began walking slowly towards her. "You knew," he stated simply. Like his face, the voice was deceptively calm, but barely contained a thunderstorm.

It took a few seconds for Molly to find her voice again, and it was only to be interrupted. "John –"

"All this time…all these months…" said John in that same dangerous tone, stalking towards her like an animal more than ready to kill. "You…watched me grieve…made me take care of myself when I couldn't give a damn…_held _me when I couldn't keep it together anymore…so many times you talked me out of putting my gun in my mouth without knowing it…and _all this time…_you knew I was going through hell for _NOTHING!_" The last word was screamed in her face.

Molly flinched, but barely resisted the urge to step back. She knew that she deserved this, perhaps even worse. "I tried to –"

"How _could _you?!" John nearly screamed. "_So many times!_ So many times you could have told me, just let it slip and make it look like an accident! _I trusted you!_"

"I COULDN'T!" poor Molly cried. "You were in danger! So were Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. Moriarty had gunmen tailing you three –"

"I know, I know, Sherlock told me," John interrupted impatiently. "In the beginning, fine, right, I get it, but what about when a month had passed? Six months? A _year_? When the danger in London was gone and he was abroad? _Why couldn't you tell me then?_ Or did you and the Holmes brothers just have a good laugh after each time you went to me or I came to you? Stupid old John, complete idiot!"

"_No!_" Molly's voice was just as loud as John's now, and both echoed across the wide lab chillingly. "Right after the fall, Sherlock hid in my flat for only a day before he disappeared completely. The only way I knew he hadn't been killed was because I badgered Mycroft so much both to let me know how he was and could I please just tell you everything. You didn't deserve to be kept in the dark like that."

"Damn right, I didn't," said John, who wasn't letting up, even as tears spilled down Molly's cheeks. "And yet I was. It wouldn't surprise me that Mycroft would insist that. Just why did the Iceman insist I not be in on the secret, or is it just because he's a sociopathic asshole?"

Molly tried to calm herself on an exhale, wiping her inflamed cheeks. "Both of them were afraid Moriarty's network would go after you right away if you knew. They thought you would try to follow Sherlock and make a target of yourself again."

"Ah, of course," said John, nodding condescending as he walked around to Molly's other side by the lab table. His anger wasn't letting up; if anything, it was growing. "Can't rely on John, who survived hell on earth in Afghanistan, watching his friends and comrades die horrifically before his eyes, to control himself and not do anything stupid! After _everything_ I've done for that arrogant sod, he used _you _to do his dirty work and make an even greater fool out of me!"

Molly shook her head, new tears spilling down her cheeks. "I wanted to tell you, believe me I did, John. But I gave Sherlock my word I would –"

"Oh, of _course _you did!" said John, his tone both sarcastic and biting, advancing on Molly again, his dark gray eyes cold as ice. "You would drop everything for him just to give you a smile! It all makes sense why he went to you for help, because he _knows _you would be as compliant as a doormat when he needed someone to do the dirty work. And along with your help, did you open your legs for him, too?"

In an instant, Molly saw red and slapped John across the face. Even in his anger, she never thought he would say something so horrible. An instant later, Molly brought that hand to her mouth in a horrified gasp.

Then, something inside John seemed to snap. He grabbed her upper arms and practically slammed her back against the lab countertop. Molly gave a small, terrified shriek, her eyes widening in fear. The silence in the lab was the loudest silence Molly had ever experienced, even though it only lasted a moment. For, in the next, John had let go of her upper arms, the desperate rage in his eyes immediately changing to horror. He looked down at his hands as if he had burned them, and he staggered back a step.

Feeling like she might shatter at any moment, Molly breathed, "I'm sorry," grabbed her purse, and then she was running. Out of the lab. Out of St. Bart's. Through the London streets and the mist that always came with the dawn. Into her building, into her flat, locking all of the locks behind her before collapsing onto her bed in a terrible fit of painful sobs.

* * *

Molly didn't know how long she had laid on her bed crying before exhaustion had taken her over and knocked her out. The next thing she knew, Molly was slowly waking up to the sound of someone knocking – practically banging – on her front door. A bit disoriented from her sleep brought on by crying, Molly got up from the bed and walked to her front door a bit unsteadily. She looked through the peephole and was shocked to see a very familiar mess of black curls. Confused, Molly undid the locks and opened the door.

Sherlock immediately came in, kicked the door closed with his foot, and looked her over critically. It was the same way he looked over a cadaver on one of the slabs in the morgue, only this time his intense eyes were tinged with worry.

"You are not injured, then," said Sherlock. "At least not…physically." He stood there for a moment, as if a great internal debate were warring inside him, and then he stuck his arms out awkwardly. At Molly's taken aback and confused look, he shook them slightly and said impatiently, "Isn't it customary for someone to offer a hug to a friend who is in great pain?"

Molly let out a breath at that as she understood. She would have laughed if her heart was not broken. So, happy to take the comfort that was offered – however prickly and awkward – and stepped into his arms, wrapping her arms around his bony torso. His own arms came around her stiffly, his hands awkwardly patting her back and head; quite frankly, it felt like being hugged by a warm tree, but Molly didn't mind. After all, if a miracle happened to you, would you pass it up?

A few minutes later, Molly pulled back, knowing that Sherlock could only take intimate physical contact for so long, but she gave him as much of a smile as she could muster. The warm gratitude in her eyes was completely genuine. "Thank you, Sherlock. You didn't have to do any of this, you know."

"Yes, I did," replied Sherlock in a surprised tone, which surprised Molly even more. "The two people I consider true friends are hurting, and that needs to be remedied."

At the mention of two people, Molly thought of John and her heart felt heavy again. Any warmth she got from Sherlock's comfort disappeared as she thought of John, and suddenly her head felt too heavy for her shoulders. So she dragged herself to her couch in the living room and laid down on it, curling up like her cat did. Vaguely, she noticed the sunlight pouring in through the windows, which meant it must be nearly noon. "You know what happened, then," Molly said, in a quiet voice when Sherlock came into the room. "I'm guessing he reacted just as badly to you?"

"Not quite. He managed to restrain himself from shouting or physical blows in a public place, which was my intention, so I could explain everything to him without any of _that _interrupting it. By the end, he said he needed some air, which is what he always did when I seemed to annoy him, so I let him go…" He paused and looked at her in regret. "I did not anticipate that he would lash out all of his anger he'd managed to restrain at you. If I did I would have stopped him."

Molly raised the shoulder not pressed into the sofa in a half shrug. "Doesn't matter. I deserved it."

Sherlock's eyes widened and his gaze on her sharpened. "You did _not_! It is thanks to you that I am living, Molly, and everything you did, you did to keep me safe and keep those I hold dearest safe, _especially_ John!"

Molly sighed, knowing what he said was true but still feeling like shit. "How did you find out, anyway? Did you follow him?"

Sherlock sat down on the sofa beside her. "No. I went back to Baker Street to see Mrs. Hudson and to put all of my things in order again. It wasn't until dawn that Mycroft called and told me that his surveillance had caught images of you running through the streets of London in a distraught state. His first impression was that someone was chasing you, but when he saw no one in pursuit, he looked at the St. Bart's surveillance he has in the pathology wing, which he then sent to me on my phone. John arrived soon after I viewed it, and I then spent the better part of the morning berating him for his behavior."

Molly lifted her head a bit at that. "What? No, Sherlock, you shouldn't have! He was angry, and he had every right to be angry!"

"At _me, _Molly, _not you,_" said Sherlock firmly, almost fiercely. "Any anger he has is only valid if meant for _me, _being I am the one who started all of this and who conceived of the idea in the first place. Also, as his closest friend, all of the betrayal he feels should be meant for me." He paused, looking Molly over in contemplation. "However, it appears that you two have grown much closer while I have been gone."

Molly closed her eyes, her heart aching for what she had lost this morning. "Yeah…we became good friends…" She felt her throat closing up again.

"And fell in love with each other."

Molly's eyes flew open and she sat up, her skin paling before it flushed brilliantly. "W-w-w-_what_?" she stammered on a squeak, her heart picking up speed. It was the first time that powerful truth had been stated out loud, even if it wasn't by her.

Sherlock held up a hand with a roll of his eyes. "Molly, do not attempt to deny it; you've always been a terrible liar, so don't even try."

"I'm not denying I love him!" Molly exclaimed, shocking herself; she'd never said it aloud before – at least, to anybody else. But it was the truth; she'd known that for weeks now. When she spoke again, her voice was much softer. "I love him very much…but don't assume he feels the same way for me, or that he ever could now."

"I don't – and never – assume, Molly: I know."

Despite her misery, Molly felt hope creep into her heart. "R-really?" she breathed.

"Growing up, my mother had a favorite saying that involved a goat."

"_What?_" Molly practically shrieked in exasperation. "Sherlock, don't change the subject!"

"I'm not, Molly, now no more interruptions," said Sherlock, like a teacher scolding a rowdy pupil. "As I was saying, my mother had a favorite saying about a goat and the subject of love. She was very fond of saying love and hate were two horns on the same goat. Not being one for metaphors, I never liked the saying until I grew older. When I began my detective work, that saying about love and hate helped me to distinguish the crimes of passion from random attacks and targets of serial killers. When trying to make sense of why John vented his anger for me at you, I remembered my mother's favorite saying and the entire situation made sense. John would not have felt so angry with you if he did not care for you just as much, and –"

"My reaction would not have been so extreme if I was not in love with him," Molly concluded quietly, lying back down.

"Also, symptoms of extreme emotion include stupid behavior, such as John insinuating inappropriate behavior between the two of us and you running through London in such a state, vulnerable to all types of accidents. Do not do that again, Molly." When Molly looked down in shame, Sherlock hastily added, "Please."

"All right, Sherlock," said Molly. She took a few deep breaths and then put her hand on Sherlock's arm, though she didn't look at him. "Thank you for being a good friend Sherlock – coming here, giving me a hug, and talking to me – I'm touched that you made the effort, truly. But there's really nothing that you can do when it comes to this matter. The only one who can fix that wants nothing more to do with me."

To her great surprise, Sherlock snorted. Before she could get offended, he said, "Go and check your phone."

_My phone…where is my phone? _Molly remembered that it was in her purse, which she had carelessly dropped by her front door when she had come home in tears. So she got up and walked to it, picking it up and digging around the inside pocket for the mobile. The setting was on silent, as it always was when at work.

When she turned it on, she was absolutely shocked. Her inbox was full of texts, missed calls and voicemails. Taking turns between reading and listening, they were all from the same person and had the same message.

"Oh, my God…" she breathed, tears filling her eyes.

"Now you can clearly see that he wants _everything _to do with you," said Sherlock with finality, standing up and walking to the front door. "I came here because he refuses to come where he thinks he is not welcome, and I grew sick of hearing him make one pleading voicemail message after the other. Let's go."

"G-go?" squeaked Molly, still in shock and pretty overwhelmed by what she had found on her phone.

Sherlock rolled his eyes a bit and opened her front door. "Yes, to Baker Street. The sooner this is all sorted out, the better. So, come on!"

"C-c-can I at least change and wash up a bit first?" asked Molly almost desperately when Sherlock reached out to take her hand and pull her out the door.

The detective gave her a once-over and then nodded. "Yes, you look an absolute fright."

Molly laughed, _really _laughed, all the way to her room. The fact that Sherlock didn't understand why she was laughing so hard only fed her mirth.

* * *

The cab ride from Molly's flat to Baker Street was spent in nervous silence – at least, nervous for Molly. For most of the ride, she had her phone pressed to her ear as she listened to the voicemails John had left her. His voice became more and more tired and emotional with each one, but all had the same plea.

_"Molly, it's me, John. Please pick up. I need to see you, I need to apologize. That was way below the belt…I don't know how I could have done that to you. Just…please, call me back."_

_ "Molly, it's John again. You have every right to be angry. Hell, you have every right to want nothing more to do with me. I would sit outside your apartment and wait if I felt I had the right. Just know I'll wait. Any word from you, please."_

_ "Molly, it's…you know it's me…please pick up… please at least let me explain. Please. That's the very least you deserve…"_

"Oh, enough," snapped Sherlock. Molly quickly turned her head to look at him; he was rolling his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. The close proximity of the cab let Molly know how he could overhear the voicemails. "It was bad enough to hear him make those calls in the first place. You get the message: he needs your forgiveness, you want his forgiveness, so let's get this matter settled once and for all so things can move forward effectively."

Molly slowly lowered the phone and turned it off, looking at Sherlock in sheer confusion and awe. "Sherlock…I understand that you want your life to go back to normal now that you're back, but…I thought you disapproved of romantic attachments."

"In general, I do," said Sherlock, who had pulled out his mobile and was doing who-knows-what on it. "I find them dull, distracting, frivolous, and stupid. I swore off such attachments long ago, and have never been interesting in starting one with anybody. However, you and John being together would not be a bad thing. In fact, it would be incredibly convenient and beneficial for all of us. John, whom I know would never be happy alone, will have the love and devotion of the best woman I know and not have to worry about losing her because of his friendship with me because she has friendship with me too. You, who once had the worst possible luck and taste in the opposite sex, will have the love and devotion of the best man I know without ever having to worry or doubt him. And I will have the satisfaction of knowing that the two who count the most in my life are not only happy in each other but will not let that change or alter their friendships with me. See? Quite convenient."

Molly was left speechless by this speech from Sherlock. It had all been said in his usual, neutral tone that he used when making a deduction or outlining a theory. However, Molly knew he was being truly sincere because the tone of his voice was just a drop softer and slower than it would normally be. It warmed her heart to know that, after all she and John had done for him, Sherlock truly valued and cared about his friends. _Our little detective is growing up, _she thought fondly.

At that moment, the cab arrived at their destination. Molly's nerves came back tenfold, especially after hearing how Sherlock wanted them together, too, because it was so unexpected. And, classic Sherlock, he said, "Right, let's get on with it," and got out of the cab without a care in the world. Molly was a bit slower, since her heart was in her throat and was pounding like mad.

Sherlock led the way up to 221B. "He'll be upstairs in his bedroom," said Sherlock. "I assume you will want to see him alone."

"Um, y-yes, I would prefer that," said Molly when they arrived outside the door. Thankfully, they entered quietly, and Sherlock wordlessly indicated the stairs that must lead up to John's room. She walked to the stairs, paused, then turned back to Sherlock. She then went on her tiptoes, pecked Sherlock's cheek (returning an apologetic gesture he had made at a Christmas party a lifetime ago), and quietly said with all her heart, "Thank you, Sherlock Holmes."

The consulting detective said nothing, but bowed his head to her with a look in his eyes that said all that needed to be said. The good friends parted ways then, Sherlock to the kitchen and Molly up the stairs.

The pathologist paused outside of the door, which was open a crack, and peeked in. Though Molly had been to 221B many times since the fall, she had never been in John's bedroom before. It was simply furnished and decorated, and Molly knew that was due to his nature as a soldier. _Nothing more than he needs, _Molly thought fondly. Though John loved the thrill and action he got from Sherlock's cases, he preferred his personal life to be as simple and drama-free as possible. This was one of the things Molly loved most about him.

However, Molly only took in the room for the moment before focusing on the room's occupant. The man she loved was lying on his bed, an arm over his eyes and his hand holding his mobile tightly, as if feeling for any hint of vibration. Molly felt her heart twist at the sight. Quietly, in case he was sleeping, Molly slipped into the room, silently shutting the door behind her. She put her purse down on the carpet by the bed before climbing onto the mattress. She sat with her legs tucked under her, facing John.

Her weight dipping the mattress caused him to stir, for he had indeed drifted off. His arm slid from his face, and his eyes blinked open and landed on her. They widened and he immediately sat up. "Molly?" he breathed, his hand lifting toward her before withdrawing in fear.

John looked so nervous, expecting rejection or that she would disappear. Molly's heart went out to him, and she knew exactly what to do. Without a word, she leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him in a hug. It took less than a moment for John's own arms to tightly wrap around her in return. Neither planned to let go of each other any time soon.

* * *

A hug was how it had started: the love between Molly and John.

The day after the fall – after Sherlock had disappeared leaving only a note for Molly – she had gone to see John. As badly as she was hurting, she knew his pain would be ten times worse. A tearful Mrs. Hudson had shown her up and let her into 221B, where John was sitting in a catatonic state in his armchair. Molly, who knew grief better than anybody should, knew that words would be useless, so she had done the only thing she could think of: she had knelt before John and gently hugged him to her. First he did nothing, then he leant against her, then his arms came around her, and then they were both crying on each other's shoulders. From then on, a hug was always how Molly and John could communicate with each other when emotions were overwhelming and words were not enough.

From there, the bond between Molly Hooper and John Watson had only grown stronger. Before the Fall, the only thing the two had in common had been Sherlock, both living in his shadow and therefore not quite visible to each other. Now that he was gone, though, both felt like they were truly meeting each other for the first time, though under the worst of circumstances. Both helped each other through their grief: Molly would call John at night when she had nightmares or couldn't sleep; John would come to St. Bart's when the flat just felt too overwhelmingly quiet; they would take long walks through London – truly a great city for walking – sometimes talking and sometimes not.

Months passed, and both began to move on as the holes in their hearts were filled. Texts and calls were exchanged daily, and both would spend time in each other's flats at least once a week. They found they had similar taste in movies, music and television, and they learned how to smile and laugh again without feeling guilty. Molly also came to know Mrs. Hudson very well, too, stopping by her flat nearly every time she went to see John. It warmed the older woman's heart to see two of the people Sherlock had left behind finding solace in each other; she hoped it would grow into something more, for she could see how good the two were for each other.

In the few months before Sherlock's unexpected return, Mrs. Hudson's wish became a reality – even if neither of the two had the courage to bring it up. A new tension filled the air when they were together now. When they hugged, they parted more slowly; when exchanging friendly pecks on the cheek, their lips lingered just a bit longer than before; conversations, both over the phone and in person, became harder to end; it became harder and harder to break gazes right away; on the rare occasion either one would go on a date, it always came to nothing. In the past, the reason would be Sherlock; now, it was because of each other. No one else could really compare. As both became aware of it, they made unconscious efforts to avoid it; more time was spent in public places rather than each other's flats, texts were exchanged more often than phone calls. And the reason for that was the same, if for very different reasons.

It was quite lucky that reason had just made itself known, for neither John nor Molly would have lasted much longer in such a suspended state when their hearts wanted only each other.

So, this hug that they shared after Sherlock's return, his ghost no longer between the two, was one of pure relief and repentance. Both shed tears, murmuring apologies over and over again, and words of forgiveness over and over again.

* * *

Neither would be able to say in the future how long that hug lasted, but that didn't really matter. Molly was the first to lift her head to look at him. Her hand went to his cheek, which was bruised on the cheekbone, as her eyes took in how exhausted and drained he looked. He'd obviously not slept the previous night, and had succumbed to sleep in grief, like her. "Can I go fetch you something?" she softly asked. "To eat or drink?"

John's arms loosened their grip around her back, and his warm hands settled firmly but intimately on her waist. "Just stay…please…" His forehead rested against her, his storm-grey eyes pleading into her doe-brown ones.

"Ok," she breathed, her hands resting where his shoulders met his neck, her thumbs absently caressing the soft, warm skin that was exposed above his jumper collar. "Please understand why I couldn't tell you. I hated doing it, but I promised and I'd never forgive myself if you were put in danger."

"Shh," he soothed, his thumbs rubbing circles into her waist through her jumper. "I know. If I had been in your shoes, I'd have done no differently. I know that now. That wasn't what made go off like I did…" He took a deep breath and closed his eyes in a grimace. "You deserve to know…I was jealous, Molly, and I thought I was going to lose you."

"What?" Molly brought a hand back to John's bruised cheek, pulling her head back a bit so she could look at him properly. "Why would you think that?"

"Because of Sherlock," said John, with a hint of frustration, opening her eyes again to look at her. There was pain in his eyes. "I saw how over the moon you were for him before everything that happened, especially at the Christmas party. When I found out the role you played in the fall, how much you risked in order to help him…I thought your feelings must run as deep as they can go if you'd do all of that for him…leaving little hope for me, then." A small gasp escaped from Molly's mouth, and her eyes widened a fraction. John immediately took it the wrong way and withdrew his hands from her waist as he pulled back a bit. "I'm sorry, but that's how I've felt for months. I couldn't tell you…felt like it would be cruel, trying to take Sherlock's place in your heart. I understand…understand completely if what I've done, and how you feel for Sherlock…well, if you can only –"

John's words stopped when Molly took John's face in her hands, leaned forward, and silenced his mouth with hers. Their first kiss was innocent and only lasted a few seconds, but it was good enough to get the message across.

When Molly pulled back, blushing beet red (being shy and not having a good track record with men, she had never been very forward in terms of initiating affectionate displays), the pathologist giggled at the dazed and dumbstruck look on the good doctor's face. Kissing him had been like going on a limb for her, but his reaction gave her all of the confidence she needed to say what she needed to say, needed him to understand.

"You just told me that, had you been in my shoes, you would have done the same thing, and you've said more than enough times that you don't love Sherlock _that _way," she said, her hands shyly caressing his cheeks. She sighed, done with teasing. "I won't deny that I was infatuated with him for a while, but I was never in love with him. Rather, I idealized the man I wanted him to be, hoping against hope that one day he would turn into my Prince Charming. It took a humiliating Christmas party and him trusting me enough to show me his humanity to make me realize that. Thankfully, he never held my heart, so it was never broken. I'm more than happy – and quite relieved – to love him as a friend, and nothing more. Ok?"

John nodded. The shock on his face gave way to complete relief and pure adoration. His fingers reached out and gently played with a stray lock of her long hair as he asked softly, with hope: "And…where _does_ your heart lie, Molly Hooper?"

Molly bit her lip, blushed, and let one of her hands slide down from his cheek to his chest. She pressed her palm directly over his pounding heart. "Right there," she breathed. "If you'll have it."

John's soft smile was all the answer she needed. "Why didn't you let me know sooner?"

The fingers playing with the lock of hair raised to caress her neck. It made Molly shiver. "I couldn't," she said, tears coming to her eyes. I knew Sherlock was alive, and I couldn't tell you. It felt…cruel, somehow, to be that selfish when I knew I couldn't be completely honest with you. Do you understand?"

John nodded, and Molly lowered her eyes. Seeing that there was more she was not saying, John cupped her chin and lifted it, catching her gaze. "There's more, Molly. Please tell me."

She took a deep breath, embarrassed about what he wanted to know. "Well…also because I don't…I haven't had the best luck with relationships, and not a lot of…experience or confidence…and after hearing all the 'Three Continents Watson' jokes from Lestrade and others, I didn't think you could possibly think of me like that with your experience, I'm nothing special or –"

Now it was John's turn to end her insecure ramblings with a kiss – though a more thorough and passionate one than the first had been. One hand held the back of her head while the other arm wrapped around her waist; her own hands grabbed fistfuls of his jumper as she kissed just as desperately back. Through that kiss John left Molly in no doubt that he certainly found her nothing short of special.

When John ended the kiss, both were out of breath, and Molly felt both dizzy and giddy. John looked just as happy and very pleased with himself. "Now, Molly, if you ever say something that stupid again, I'm going to have to stop your mouth. Are we clear?"

Her heart leaping for joy, Molly grinned. "I hope that won't be the only reason you stop my mouth, John."

"God, no, I've waited too long," John breathed, and then they were kissing again. Soon they were lying down on the bed, making out with a joy unique to new lovers, when John's mobile began to vibrate and ring in a text alert. He groaned into her neck and Molly giggled. With a huff, they sat up and he reached for his mobile, clicking it on and reading the message. Whatever it said caused John to grimace, and Molly raised a curious eyebrow. A blushing and furious John showed her the text message.

_Please keep in mind that I am still in the flat and am not in the mood to become nauseous at the sound of you two copulating. SH_

Molly blushed the brightest shade of red possible. John got off the bed, walked to his bedroom door, opened it fully, yelled "_SHUT UP, SHERLOCK!_" and shut the door. John turned back to her with an embarrassed and apologetic grin, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'll have to get used to that again," he said, making Molly laugh.

By the door, the sunlight from the windows struck his face more strongly. Molly got off the bed, went to him, and gingerly touched his bruised cheekbone. "Oh, John, I'm so sorry for that," she said.

John shook his head, took her hand and kissed it. "I more than deserved it after what I said to you. Besides, this –" He pointed to his cheek, " – is Sherlock's handiwork, not yours."

"He hit you?" exclaimed Molly.

"Threw the punch just before he laid into me with words on how despicably I'd behaved towards you," said John, shaking his head as his eyes reflected the bizarre memory. "To be lectured by Sherlock Holmes about behaving horribly…I don't think I've ever been more humbled, and I have no intention of giving him that satisfaction _ever _again." He ended with a soft kiss to her forehead, sealing his promise.

Molly smiled before biting her lip. "Do you…um…want to come back to mine?" she asked shyly, her cheeks a pretty pink now. She immediately began back-tracking when he looked at her in surprise. "Or if you want to stay here and catch up with Sherlock, of course that's fine, I was just offering, in case you wanted to –"

John put a finger on her lips before saying lowly, "I absolutely want to. We've got a lot of time to make up for," He nodded towards the door, "and he's not going anywhere. Let's go."

Molly grabbed her purse, John grabbed his keys and mobile, and the two walked down the stairs into the sitting room. Sherlock stood at the window, wearing his blue dressing idly plucking his violin strings, as if he'd never left Baker Street at all. The sight made the two new lovers pause and smile before heading to the door.

"Oh, John?"

They paused, and John said, "Yeah, Sherlock?"

Not looking up from his violin, Sherlock said in his no-bullshit voice, similar to the tone he'd used when telling John not to make people into heroes, "You do anything that stupid again, and I will make sure there will be no bins to break your fall. Understood?"

To his credit, John grinned and said, "Absolutely."

Molly, who had heard this story from John long ago, couldn't help but giggle. "See you later, Sherlock." With that, they left 221B.

Neither saw the grin spread across Sherlock's face or heard the happy melody he composed on his violin after being eighteen months without it, while watching the two most important people in his life walk hand-in-hand down Baker Street.

_It is most definitely satisfactory to be back home._

**The End**

* * *

**A/N: **_Though I am mainly a Sherlolly shipper and writer, I'm also a fan of John/Molly stories when well-written. There aren't enough of them out there, in my opinion; I think they'd be cute together! I've wanted to write one for a while, but wanted to wait until inspiration hit. _

_It did hit when I was reading an old Sherlolly fic that mentioned John being angry with Molly for her part in The Fall. I wanted to explore that further, specifically what would happen if John really lashed out at her. _

_I also wanted to do a bit of role reversal – All of us are familiar with stories that have Sherlock screwing up and John acting as the voice of reason to get him with Molly. But what if the reverse happened? I hope I did it in a plausible – and entertaining – way. Please leave a review!_


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